


Dawn is Coming (but I want you to stay)

by kintsugih



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Heavy Angst, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:54:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kintsugih/pseuds/kintsugih
Summary: Time is cruel to many, and as Han Jisung spies the sunrise in the distance, all he can think of is the dark-haired beauty holding him tight. Dawn is coming, but how do I tell you that I want you to stay?





	1. Insomnia

    In the corner between two bay windows, an old grandfather clock sat framed by dark red curtains. Within the heart of the oak timekeeper was a gold pendulum, its hands above shifting as they moved in harmony with the swings. In this corner was an instrument of Time, and in Time is where all stories start. Shall we begin?

    Where the clock stood on steady feet, Time watches as a young man emerges onto the play of history that humans call life. When those moon-cast eyes scan the room for the man he calls his father, the minute hand points anew.

_11:11._

    At the click that resonated throughout Time’s body, it perked up - surveying the mortal with a more scrutinous eye. It wonders how to use this new puppet with eyes the color of night, how to use a different color on a canvas filled with only red. Then it grins, in the way one could perceive as a grin, and gripped the swinging pendulum in excitement. The human breathes shakily, shoving his hands into the pockets of the green jacket hanging off his thinning frame. Time had been cruel to him, as the thing itself laughed at the male’s sunken cheeks and hollow face. But in those depth-filled eyes was the life that his appearance lacked - a unique fire of strength and will. Time licked it lips with the promise of a feast.

    The sound of footsteps came from behind the door the young man was staring at. Time cocked its head as a taller man filled the doorway, his build a point of comparison to what the younger man’s used to be. But, Time supposed - with humans, a look was as deceiving as an expression behind a mask.

    “Son,” he inclined his head towards the desk resting in the room behind the door. The latter strode towards the chair in front of the table, his face equally impassive. Once the other was seated, the former finally sneered before recovering his cool facade and shutting the door with a resolute click. Within the grandfather clock, Time moved, leaping for the crack between door and frame, finding refuge in the circular clock perched on the polished mahogany of the desk.

    The man finally seated himself behind his desk, observing the light-haired man in front of him. His eyes fell on the glittering white, twinkling faintly from where it lied on the male’s fourth finger. Then those brown orbs widened imperceptibly, as it recognized those dark crystals imbedded within the metal band. Then the older man revealed the first hint of emotion besides indifference.

    He laughed.

    It was a humorless one at that, neither remotely funny or mocking. It merely existed.

    Just like Time.

    Hidden in the clock, it watched as the man who laughed open his mouth to speak.

    “Golden obsidian, Minho? Your fiance must be something.”

    The addressed gave away nothing, but his eyes simply flashed in something Time would call anger. That was another fun thing to play with - a constant with humans.

    The man spoke again, “What’s the poor girl's name, son? Who would want the last picking of the Lee family?”

    But from the direct jab at his own name, the man, _Minho_ , did not care to reply. But he softly murmured the name of the person who carried the counterpart to his own engagement ring.

    Somewhere across the country was the gleaming warmth of rose gold, resting on a younger man, lethargically blinking off the heaviness of sleep from his eyelids. A disgruntled groan filled the room along with an alarm blaring from a phone, thrown off the side of the bed. Tousled hair the same color of his ring lifted off the pillow, and lanky limbs stretched out lazily. The man looked out the window, and a few moments later the soft padding of feet on hardwood echoed around the room. When the footsteps stopped, the alarm was silenced.

    In the pale hands of the young man who gazed at his screen, they not only did they hold the phone, but the heart of a fire-filled dancer.

_What’s the poor girl's name, son?_

    The risen male turned off the device with a sigh, and stood to move to the kitchen. The sound of water and gurgling followed by a small beep could be heard in the cozy apartment, and then silence blanketed the place once more.

    After an hour or so, the young man went out the door, coffee in hand and a jacket haphazardly put. He walked around - with no course or direction - letting his legs figure it out and his mind to wander. Tucked beneath his arm was a sketchbook bound in leather and clutched in his fingers was a plain pencil. The sun hadn’t made its arrival into its throne, still sleeping in the horizon fringing night with the traces of its brilliance. And with the pleasant chill of the early morning air, the male found himself on a bench in the nearby park.

   _Who would want the last picking of the Lee family?_

    The creak of weathered wood and the soft thump of a sketchbook were the only response, the pencil wagging in the air with the man’s contemplation. The man debated what to sketch, looking towards the hint of sun in hopes of a masterpiece to capture. As he opened the sketchbook on his lap, a small voice startled the steady descent of his hand.

    “Can you draw anything?” the man whipped his head around to see a small boy with big eyes. Then he huffed in amusement to himself, before replying,

    “Would you like me to draw you something?”

    The boy nodded in excitement, but paused in his eagerness.

    He looks down, “I want you to draw something I haven’t seen before.”

   _He probably wants me to draw a dragon or something_ , the man thought. “Sure, I can do that.”

    The tip of his pencil grazed barren paper, but halted in surprise as the child looks back up with hope in his eyes -

    “Can you draw love?”

    The artist felt a pang of sorrow in his heart, a regretful smile filling his face as he told the child -

    “I-I’m still learning about love myself,” he lowered his eyes. “I don’t know what love looks like yet.”

    Instead of receiving a forlorn response, the artist’s head shot up in shock as he heard innocent laughter from in front of him. The boy gazed at him with a wisdom that felt too old to belong in those reflecting orbs.

    “Isn’t that part of it?”

    In the boy’s jacket was a pulsing glow, and a small hand gingerly removed it from where the light resided. In his outstretched palm was a flower that the man had never seen before.

    The child gingerly took its stem and tucked it behind the artist’s ear. Then he leaned in.

    “It’s a he,” the son scowled, though his eyes shimmered with wonder. Wonder for a boy who found him, as he found the boy.

    The child tilted its head, as if trying to hear something in the distance. Then he smiled to himself.

    “Live, sweet-”

    “Jisung,” the son and boy said together.

    Time is cruel to many - yet in trembling hands held a gift of time, a flower blooming despite the sun rising to burn it into ashes.

    Stirring within the depths of a nameless abyss, a sleeping thing begins to dream.

 


	2. Sunset [1/2]

_It was the sound of glass shattering - the feel of them spraying across his face. He couldn’t register the blood trickling down his cheeks, intertwined with tears - salt and copper filling his mouth as blow after blow hit him again, and again, and again._

  _He stopped asking for it to end. He simply learned to take the pain and wait it out._

    “Useless, stupid, leech,” _the words slur in the effects of alcohol, the dregs of his father’s last drink splattering on his uniform._

_“You don’t deserve to see your mother after she left me,” the last two words were bellowed, a final hurl of the glass bottle leaving him with black spots dancing in his vision. He barely feels the floor rise to meet him, barely feels the defeat and submissiveness. All he can do was breathe - inhale, exhale, inhale-_

    “Go back to her again, _son_ , and let’s see what she thinks about you now.”

    No - anything but that. _His breaths became jagged, his knuckles becoming white where he clenched his hands into fists._

    “Maybe I should invite her over here… or maybe send a picture, hm?” No, no, no, no, _Jisung chants in his mind_ _-_  please... please…

_He watches as his father yanks out the cracked device, imbedded in the wall from his father’s start of rage._

_He watches, still, as his father sneers at him as he presses the call button._

    “No-”

_Everything goes black._

\---

    In the small light cast by a cheap candle, the sound of a pencil scratching filled the heavy air.

 _Day one hundred thirty-five_ , Jisung labeled in the margins of the paper. The rest was a broken bottle, shards of it lying on a blood-speckled floor. His pencil traced a nameless circle within the center of the glass container, though what it was, Jisung had yet to discover.

    He sighed and closed his sketchbook with a muted thump.

    Heavy feet barely registered on the cheap carpet, just like how the blank eyes of the ravenette didn’t care to see beyond the darkness writhing in the corners of his room.

    Shaking hands wrapped around a plastic container and with a strong twist the lid was set on the edge of the sink. A single pill rested on the palm of his hand, sitting there in his dulled gaze before he took it. As he swallowed the tablet with a mouthful of water, his eyes found the rusted mirror.

_Blood tracing the outskirts of his eyes, a shadowy figure raising the bottle one last time-_

    He looked away.

    One hundred thirty-five days after he left that prison he once called his home. One hundred two days after he found this cheap room to live in.

    Zero days before the deadline for his rent was due.

    Withdrawing from the molding basin, he set his mind on other things besides the latest product of his panic attacks and the sinking feeling of his gut. Right as he was about to hide his sketchbook, the door rattled from violent pounding of who Jisung was now afraid to face.

    “ _Han Jisung_ ,” his landlord shouted, “pay up or you’re gonna be evicted. I’m sorry buddy, that’s just the way it is.”

    Jisung could tell by the tone of the second sentence that the owner wasn’t regretting kicking out the near broke teenager who couldn’t pay his bills on time. Nevertheless, he forced himself to take a deep breath, before unlocking his door and falling to his knees in desperation.

    “Please, Mr.Jung, I know I don’t deserve this, but please let me pay double rent next month. I’m still trying to find a job!”

    He was met with thick silence from the man, and when he looked up, the man was boring holes into his.

    “Listen, kid, I don’t know if you can even survive a month to even give me double rent.”

    “Mr. Jung, I’ll prove you wrong,” Jisung stated as firmly as he could, despite his mind disagreeing with the prospect of paying two months worth of bills.

    The man said nothing, but just as Jisung looks down in rejection, the landlord gives in.

    “Double rent - and if you don’t pay before next month’s deadline no amount of puppy eyes and begging will be able to save you.”

    With that, the man left the ravenette still kneeling, the latter contemplating how the hell he wasn’t evicted.

    As soon as the man’s back rounded the corner, a strangled kind of laugh tore from his throat - though where it came from Jisung had no idea. All he knew, was that one - he wasn’t homeless, and two - he was very much fucked.

    He closed the door with a click, and sank down the rotting door, resting his head between his knees to try and ease the roiling of his stomach.

 _I can do this_ , Jisung told himself, I don’t need anybody but myself. _That was the way it was after Mom left us. I’m going to find a job and do whatever needs to be done in order to get the money._

    And with that, he left from his spot by the door, and grabbed his phone. Its screen was cracked from its days with his father, but it was all Jisung had. He unlocked it, and clicked on his emails.

    Over the months after he ran away, he relied on his phone to grant him access to song requests from rising artists. Alongside the device and his sketchbook, his notebook was another thing that kept him sane these days.

    He scanned the long list of unreads, the names blurring as he went on. Eventually he reached the end of his inbox, and threw his phone across the room with a short, irritated yell.

 _Goddamnit_.

    He couldn’t afford to be picky now - the roof on his head was staked on these countless offers that Jisung had already reached the bottom of.

 _Fuck_.

    Drawing his hood up in frustration he leaned his head on the wall and let out a long breath. _I can do this. Just... not today._

    He surrendered himself to the quiet of his room, the silence wrapping around him like an invisible blanket. As his eyes started to droop, a ding startled him out of his stupor. An eye opened - what the hell? He crawled over to his phone, on the other side of the room, and read the notification.

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

this guy is asking 4 songwriters

do you want me to say something to him

 

 _Heonwoo? What the fuck does he think he’s doing?_ His fingers tapped furiously, brows furrowed as he pressed send, send, send.

 

**Me**

I don’t give a shit

If that’s what you want to do now with my trust and name then do it and go to hell

You do you

Good fucking day to you

 

    He turned his phone off and stared at the screen with blank fury. Had Heonwoo already forgotten Jisung’s last words? _Don’t ever talk to me again, don’t ever text me again, and don’t expect me to say anything to you besides ‘you son of a bitch’ word for word_. The soft flickering of the candlelight nearly drove Jisung to sleep again, except, of course, a _ding_ broke the blissful silence once more.

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

ji u know im sorry

i had no choice

if u could believe it

 

    Jisung laughed at that.

 

**Me**

Oh fuck off Heonwoo

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

back to 1st name basis huh

i deserve it

i admit

but im trying to help you

please

 

**Me**

When hell freezes over

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

great

all we have to do is wait for it to snow in the shithole u live in

its fun being broke

isnt it

 

**Me**

Fucker I wouldn't be broke now if it wasn't for you

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

well thats why im talking to you now

so we can get this grudge over with okay

im trying to be better

 

**Me**

Are you drunk?

You expect me to just  t r u s t  you after you did all those things?

And I would forget how you lied and stole what I made from my own fucking self?

Fuck no

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

please believe me

i found a good guy

he’s not like me

please take a chance on him

if not me

ik your in a bad place now

just

heres his contact

______________

 

**Me**

Give me one reason to even consider you’re not lying  


**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

he’s with me rn

he asks if meeting tmr @ ________________ is okay with you

 

**Me**

That's not a reason Heonwoo

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

9:30 AM

 

**Me**

Where's the fucking reason

 

**(Blocked) Heonwoo**

the guy’s alias is Lee Know

find the channel skz-alliance

i’m not lying

_Read 10:32_

 

    He ran his fingers through his hair, muttering obscenities under his breath and rereading the conversation over and over again. He checked the phone’s battery, and yelped in indignation. _Seven percent._ He swore at the phone then slid it into his pocket.

   _Well, fuck me._

    It didn’t take him long afterwards to find himself moving in quick strides to the nearest internet café.

    The internet café provided the essentials his cheap, rundown place didn’t have. No electricity, no lights (besides the candles he sometimes is able to afford), and no place within a comfortable distance to charge his phone (which means when the battery icon turns red he’s screwed).

    Once he arrived at the café, he monitored his surroundings. He sighed inwardly.

    And did his move.

    In front of one of the computers, a girl’s eyes were trained solely on the screen, her drink sitting next to the computer. As soon as he saw her shift for a more comfortable position, he swept near her and tipped over the beverage. When her fingers found the keys once more, her features rippled into a look of horror, and her head whipped behind her - searching for a person to blame. Yet everybody seemed unaware of her plight, no one out of place or likely of spilling her drink. She muttered a curse under her breath, before inspecting the keyboard.

    Meanwhile, an innocent boy with raven hair and stone-blue eyes, was sprawled over a bean bag, charging cord swaying a bit as his eyes roamed all over his screen. Unlike his appearance, he was observing the scene in his peripheral vision, and the second the manager came over at the girl’s call, he started his research.

    He looked up ‘ _skz-alliance_ ,’ and the search led him to a small biography. Apparently the name was for a group of freelance artists who banded together under the alliance. A list was shown for all the known artists that made up the group. As his eyes wandered down the alphabetical list, he stumbled across the hyperlink ‘ _Lee Know_.’ He quickly checked the name against the alias given to him then clicked on it.

“ _Lee Know, main dancer of the SKZ-Alliance. In charge of the SKZ-Players, including Felix and Hyunjin._

 _No pictures available_.”    

    Jisung clicked his tongue, _Heonwoo is really serious about this, huh?_

He closed off his phone, and, glancing upwards to see if the manager was still occupied, he casted his jacket over the outlet and device and headed off.

    Raised voices arose from the café that Jisung narrowly escaped from.

    “It wasn’t me!” her voice was a controlled shout, the girl staring down the man.

    He crossed his arms, “Just pay for the goddamn computer.”

    “It wasn’t me,” she insisted, stepping closer as if to intimidate the other to agree.

    The male wasn’t impressed, and once he had enough of the female’s persistence, he raised his hand to slap her.

    “Excuse me?” somebody appeared next to the young female. The person glared at the manager.

    “Hitting my sister is a bad way to run business,” the newcomer stated coldly, but it didn’t provoke a reaction other than growing irritation.

    “Should I care?” the manager raised an eyebrow.

    The new man laughed.

    “Have fun being homeless,” he said, and with that, he slung an arm over the girl’s shoulders. With a mocking salute, both exited from the place.

    The manager felt a bit uneasy, but conveyed his anger through a scowl sent towards their turned backs.

    Once they were a few steps away from the building, the girl drawled, “I can take care of myself, Minho.”

    The young man rolled his eyes, stepping away from her, “Well Mother would’ve been pissed if I didn’t do anything.” He dusted invisible specks of lint off his jacket sleeve. “ _And_ you were there because of me. Did you find him?”

    The girl examined her nails.

    “This boy,” she faltered, then recovered, “just… don’t make Father more angry than he already is with… you know…”

    “I’ll keep it professional,” was all he said. She gave him a look, but they rounded the corner - gone from view.

    Deep in the folds of wherever Time lays, it sees the iridescent shimmering of something like red strings - looped loosely around a dancer’s ankle and twined around the pale fingers of another man.

   _Time is cruel to many_ \- yet those red strings turn gold in the corner of universe’s waiting eyes.

 


End file.
